


Half-Asleep and Dreaming

by thesaddestboner



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2006 Winter Olympics, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Atlanta Thrashers, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, M/M, Russians, Team Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-05
Updated: 2006-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s disappointing, but it’s just a loss – this game is all about losses.  They happen.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Asleep and Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hockey_fc.livejournal.com/profile)[**hockey_fc**](http://hockey_fc.livejournal.com/)'s **Loss** challenge. Let's assume they're speaking Russian to one another. Also, it’s hard to write this when the events contained within occurred some eight months ago. 
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hockey_fc/12841.html?style=mine) at [](http://hockey_fc.livejournal.com/profile)[**hockey_fc**](http://hockey_fc.livejournal.com/) a few years ago.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Pavel Datsyuk wakes up in the middle of the night, his little finger throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He takes off the soft cast provided to him by the coaching staff and pops his finger into his mouth; he slicks his tongue over it and it's hot to the touch. He can't wait until he can go home, and can finally take some _real_ painkillers. He rolls onto his side and flicks on the lamp over his headboard, scanning the nightstand for his half-empty package of aspirin. 

"Pavel, will you turn off that damn light?" Ilya sits up in bed, scrubbing his fists over his eyes, making a show of wincing and scowling. "It's hurting my eyes."

"I'm looking for my aspirin," he murmurs, voice low, searching for his aspirin with his hands, like a blind man. 

"Oh, I think Alex took the last of them," Ilya replies, laying back in bed and pulling the covers to his chin. "He got hit pretty hard in today's game. Had a headache."

"And I've got a broken finger." Pavel kicks off his bedsheets and slips his feet into fuzzy wool slippers, and pads off to the bathroom with a Dixie cup. 

The Pavel Datsyuk in the mirror stares out with tired, ringed eyes, and when he hunches over the sink, holding his little wax cup under the nozzle with shaking fingers, he can feel his mirror image's eyes burning into the back of his neck.

"You okay?"

Pavel looks up. Ilya is leaning against the doorframe, black hair matted to his forehead, a drowsy look tugging down on his features, drawing his mouth slack. 

"I will be fine after the bronze medal game," Pavel says, finally managing to fill up his cup. He shuts off the faucet and nudges his way past Ilya to his bed. He is surprised he doesn't spill any water on his way back, with the way his hand is shaking.

"That doesn't look good." Ilya nods to Pavel's hand, and both of them look down at the finger in question, swollen and crooked. 

Pavel takes the cup of water and holds his finger in it, holds it there until he can't feel the pulse of pain anymore. "Doesn't feel too good either."

Ilya turns on his side and sighs, resting his chin on his forearm. "Can you at least soak your finger in the dark? I want to go to sleep."

Pavel sets his wax cup of water on the nightstand and sticks his pinkie finger in, hissing softly and closing his eyes. "It hurts too much to move. _You_ turn it off."

Ilya slips out of bed and trundles over to Pavel's bedside, leaning over him and flipping the lightswitch, plunging the room into darkness. The back of his hand brushes against something, and Pavel yelps. " _What_?" Ilya turns the light back on.

Pavel is clutching his hand to his chest, a large, dark wet spot spreading on the front of his t-shirt. "Clumsy," he mutters, scowling. 

Ilya bends over him, taking his hand in his and examining the broken finger. "It looks no worse for the wear," he scolds, quietly, backing away and pulling up the comforter, patting it over Pavel's chest. 

Pavel huffs and flips the light back off, holding his hand against his chest. "Good night, Ilya."

" 'Night, Pavel." Ilya closes his eyes and presses his fingertips to his lips, dreaming of bronze medals they'd be settling for, and the gold medals they'd let slip away.

*

"My hands are cold." Pavel is laying on top of his comforter, clutching his hand to his chest. His fingers are cold, and he wonders if maybe Ilya has opened a window. He cranes his neck, and sees the curtains fluttering in the breeze like butterfly wings.

"Put on mittens then," comes Ilya's voice, from the balcony. 

"It is the middle of winter. Come in and close the door," Pavel sighs, sliding out of bed and shuffling in socked feet to Ilya's side. "You're going to catch cold."

Ilya is resting his hands on the railing, fingers chapped and red, and Pavel wants to warm them for him, but for some reason, he doesn't, he can't. "I don't care. I'm not cold at all." Ilya tightens his grip in the metal railing, and looks as if he's fighting against something inside himself, fighting to stay behind the rail.

Pavel reaches out and grabs onto the back of Ilya's t-shirt, anchoring him, holding him back from the edge. "It's not so bad," he murmurs, giving Ilya's shirt a tug, pulling him back.

"It's worse," Ilya says, leaning his hip against the metal rail. Pavel sucks in a breath. "They wanted gold. We didn't even bring home a medal, Pavel."

Pavel reaches out tentatively – with his good hand, of course – and curls his fingers in the collar of Ilya’s t-shirt, lightly. “Do not worry so much, Iliushka. What’s done is done, there’s nothing you can do about that . . . Do you expect that our countrymen will demand a rematch?” He offers Ilya a smile, but the other man does not reciprocate.

“We _lost_. We let them down.” He leans heavily on the railing and Pavel slips his hand away.

“We tried our hardest,” Pavel insists, “for our motherland, and for Pasha, and for Papa Bear.”

Ilya only sighs. 

“Come back to bed, Iliushka. It will not sting so badly in the morning.” Pavel tugs on Ilya’s arm playfully, trying to coax a smile out of him.

Ilya reluctantly allows himself to be pulled back into the hotel room, not noticing as Pavel latches the balcony door securely. “Okay,” he mutters, quietly, “okay. You win, Pavel.”

Pavel smiles. “Of course I win.” He leads Ilya to bed and guides him back inside, pausing. “Will you be okay?”

Ilya looks up at him, pulling the covers to his chin. “I – I think so. Just, the loss. So disappointing, you know?”

Pavel nods, crawling over Ilya and flopping on top of him, his arms and legs flailed. Ilya lets out a soft noise and rests a hand at the small of Pavel’s back. “It’s disappointing, but it’s just a loss – this game is all about losses. They happen.”

Ilya keeps hs hand steady, warm and still on Pavel’s back, eyes turned to the white whipped cream ceiling. “But this was not just any other – ”

“It was just like any other loss,” Pavel murmurs, shifting so that he’s wedged into Ilya’s side. He rests his arm across Ilya’s side, swollen finger still throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He can feel Ilya’s icy mint breath skittering across the underside of his wrist in slow tendrils, and closes his eyes. “It’s never as bad as you think it is.”

Ilya nudges his mouth lightly against Pavel’s wrist, tiredly, eyelids drooping shut. “Mm. Perhaps.” He draws the comforters tight to his chest and closes his eyes, as Pavel’s fingers find his hair and begin to stroke lightly. “Goodnight, Pavel.”

“Goodnight, Iliushka,” Pavel replies, half-asleep and dreaming, half-caught in a dreamworld of ice and pucks, skate blades and goal horns, this time finally managing to pull around his neck the medal they’d failed to win.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
